


trust me, trust nobody

by celosiaa



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 02, Sick Character, Sickfic, Trans Martin Blackwood, before jon gets super paranoid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25235488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa
Summary: prompt from taylortut (!!) on tumblr:i'm a sucker for Tim and Jon being friends (or ex-friends) in hurt/comfort scenarios (but if you prefer Martin that's fine too!!) so how would you feel about Tim asking Jon for a favor despite that he knows he hadn't been feeling well the previous night, and Jon agreeing because he's JON and making Tim regret even asking lol
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Comments: 23
Kudos: 245





	trust me, trust nobody

**Author's Note:**

> hi again everyone!! this prompt was sent in by @taylor_tut, and I had such a great time writing it! please go check out her fics--you will NOT regret it, I promise! she's so incredibly talented!!!
> 
> Tim's thoughts are formatted in italics.

“Closing tiiiime, one last call for alcohol, so finish up your whisky or beeeer!!”

Martin rolls his eyes at Tim where he’s draped himself across his desk, singing both passionately and tunelessly into an air microphone.

“Closing tiiiiime, you don’t have to go home but—”

“Tim, it’s only just quarter past noon! I hate to tell you, but we’re a long way from closing time, mate,” Martin giggles, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

“Yeah, well, that just means it’s lunch time! And it’s your big day! So—where are we going?”

Martin’s grin falters ever so slightly.

“Er, well…actually, I don’t know if—”

“No no no, you do _not_ get to back out of this one. You’ve got to celebrate! It’s not every day a man gets cleared for top surgery!” Tim replies fervently, sitting up properly on Martin’s desk.

Martin sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“I know, and I _really_ appreciate it Tim, it’s just…Jon asked me to look over some stuff, and I’m already behind because of my appointment this morning, and…you know how he can get.”

“…yeah. Unfortunately.”

Tim glances over at Jon’s office door, which is fully shut with the blinds closed. Truth be told, he’s been worried about Jon since he came back from leave. The man had always been a little reclusive, a little awkward, but…this was something else entirely. Nowadays, his door remains perpetually shut, intentionally closed off from the rest of the archival staff—and Tim doesn’t like it one bit.

He’s broken out of his reverie by Martin’s stomach growling.

“Ooh, sorry—”

Tim claps his hands together with a grin.

“Ha! That settles it, then. I’ll give him a distraction and he won’t even notice you’re behind,” Tim replies jovially.

“Are you sure?”

“ _Absolutely_. It’s a good one, I’ve been saving it for a time of need. Leave it to me.”

He gives Martin a wink as he stands, knowing that it will make him blush—and he’s delighted to be proven right, pink rising at once beneath his dusting of freckles.

_Nothing if not predictable,_ Tim thinks with a fond grin. As he passes by his desk, he grabs the file he’s been saving for the past few weeks and raps on Jon’s door.

No reply.

Tim’s brow furrows at this, concern beginning to rise. He calls out and raps on the door again.

“Jon? You okay?”

Still nothing. He can’t hold down the anxiety rising in him now.

_Something’s wrong. Fuck._

“I’m coming in.”

He swings open the door, heart pounding, praying to whatever gods there may be that he’s not about to find Jon on the floor, covered in worms again.

The room is entirely Jon-less.

_Sweet Jesus._

Tim takes a moment to breathe, allowing the panic to settle back in as he leans over, bracing his arms on his knees. Squeezing his eyes shut, he fights back against the onslaught of memories—worms, blood, infection, _pain, pain, pain_ —that flood incessantly through his mind.

_He’s not here._

_He’s not here, and he’s fine._

_You’re fine._

_You’re fine._

Taking one last grounding breath, he stands to his full height, rubbing at his shoulder where the worms had dug into it as he exits the room.

_Alright, you bastard, where’d you run off to?_

He checks the break room next—not because he thinks Jon would be there, but because Sasha may know something he doesn’t. As usual. To his utter surprise, however, there stands Jon—leaning heavily against the countertop, fixing himself a cup of what looks to be more honey than tea.

Tim can’t help but laugh, causing Jon to jump at the unexpected noise.

“Ha! Caught in the act! Finally decided to take matters into your own hands, did you? Martin will be _so_ upset!” he booms, leaning casually against the door frame.

Jon’s only reply is to glare daggers at him over his shoulder, before turning back to his “tea” with a sniff. Tim’s smile falls in confusion.

_Odd._

Sweeping his gaze over Jon, he notices with rising alarm the way he’s braced against the countertop, his left leg shaking even as he leans onto his uninjured one. Even more concerning is the presence of his cane, also resting against the counter within his arm’s reach—as Tim knows he doesn’t typically use it to walk short distances within the office.

_Ooh, this is…not good._

He softens both his voice and posture carefully as he approaches.

“Jon? You alright?”

Whipping his head back around, glare still in place, Jon sneers at him.

“I’m _fine,_ Tim. Leave off.”

Tim’s eyes go wide, and he steps back slightly, hands raised in consolation.

“Woah, boss. Jesus.”

He remains frozen for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. As he watches, pondering, Jon’s hand shakes so badly that tea sloshes over the rim of his mug, and Tim’s had enough.

“Jon, really. You’re shaking. Are you in pain?” he says lowly, crossing his fingers that this gentle tone won’t earn him a chewing-out.

Jon sighs and looks up, a gesture Tim recognizes as a plea for patience from whoever is listening.

“I said I’m _fine_ , Tim. Just leave it, please,” he says, his words carefully measured.

As Tim inhales to reply, Martin steps through the doorway, freezing for a moment when he sees Jon’s attempt at making tea.

“Oh! Jon! I was just about to make some. Sorry I didn’t get it to you this morning, I had to—”

“I don’t need excuses, Martin. And I can make my own tea. Just get back to work,” he snaps viciously, never turning around to look at him.

The way Martin’s face falls at this sparks an anger in Tim that he hasn’t felt in a long while.

“Oh. Um. Right, sorry. I’ll just—I’ll just go then. Sorry,” he stammers as he hurries out of the room face beet red.

_Oh, that’s it._

_I’m going to kill him._

Jon at least has the graciousness to blush, regret pooling ever so slightly behind his eyes.

Tim throws his arms wide, glaring at him.

“You’re really going to snap at Martin, right in front of me, and not expect me to get angry?”

Sighing yet again, Jon does not reply, refuses to look at him. Tim’s ire only grows, and his tone steadily ticks upward until it’s very nearly a shout.

“You know, if you paid attention to _anything_ he’s told you, you’d know that he’s been trying to get an appointment with that top surgeon for nearly a year. He’s been counting down the days on the office calendar for months, and he finally had it today, and you can’t even be bothered to _remember_? To cut him _any_ slack? _Are you joking_?”

Jon meets his eyes at last, his glare sharp and cold.

“I do pay attention. More than you know,” he hisses.

“What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?”

Jon looks away once again, staring into his tea.

“Just…just tell me what you wanted, Tim,” he says, his voice nearly a whisper.

_God, I could punch him right now._

He throws the file he’s holding on the counter instead.

“You know what? Fine. I was just starting to feel sorry for you, and I was actually going to fix this problem _for_ you. But since you insist on being a complete arse, fine.”

He points forcefully toward the file folder.

“There’s an inconsistency with the date on this statement and the follow-up. I tried everything I could to reconcile it, but we just need more data. I need to know if there are any other statements about this house or the surrounding area so I can cross-reference them.”

“R-right, I’ll take care of that,” he says, voice still low, and takes the file. 

Tim’s anger very nearly abates when he reaches for his cane, then limps slowly and painfully to sit at the breakroom table. But he cannot shove it down, no matter how much he wants to.

_No, you know what? He can deal with whatever this is himself._

_He **ought** to feel ashamed._

_He can’t keep speaking to us this way._

Steeling himself, Tim locks his gaze on Jon once again.

“Look, I’m taking Martin to lunch today, and I don’t care if he’s behind on his work. I don’t care what you think of it, either. He deserves to celebrate, and you can just sit here and wallow.”

He turns immediately on his heel and strides out the door to collect Martin.

(7am, the next morning)

The brewing cold of autumn seeps into Tim’s bones as he walks from the gym, freshly showered and aiming to drop his things off at the Institute before grabbing coffee with Sasha. It’s the first time he’s worked out on his own since he was discharged from physical therapy, and he cannot deny his frustration about the performance of his weakened muscles—muscles that had once been so strong. Still, it had felt good to be back, and Tim had certainly not gone easy on himself.

_Perhaps I should have_ , he thinks, feeling the shoulder beneath the strap of his gym bag beginning to seize up.

Dumping his bag on his desk, Tim flops down unceremoniously into his chair. He can’t help but wince as he rubs at his sore shoulder, finding with dismay that he can no longer turn his head to the left without sending shooting pains to the base of his skull and across the top of his shoulder.

_Damn it. Overdid it again._

He spends a few minutes this way, breathing through the pain as he works his fingers over the knots, over the countless scars—testing his neck’s range of motion every so often. It helps in part, but he ultimately finds himself still unable to turn his head by the time he’s finished. He groans in frustration.

As he does so, a sharp sound echoes from deeper within the archives, and Tim is immediately set on high alert.

_Fuck fuck fuck_

He stays stock still, eyes blown wide, listening for any indication that something unwelcome has joined him here today, when—

A series of harsh, painful-sounding coughs floats from the direction of Jon’s office, where a light has been left on.

Vicious anger flares up in Tim instantly.

_Oh you have **got** to be kidding me._

Standing up in a rush, he marches over to Jon’s office door, which stands partially open. There sits Jon, hunched over his desk, staring intently at the pages scattered across it without really seeing them. The deep black under his eyes tells Tim that, without a doubt, he has been here all night.

And he is _furious._

“What the _hell_ are you doing, Jon?”

Jon’s head snaps upwards, expression momentarily widened in shock, before it melts quickly back into his usual scowl.

“I’m only doing what you asked me to do, Tim,” he rasps, voice sounding decidedly small.

“I did _not_ ask you to stay here all night,” Tim fumes, his hand slamming down angrily on the corner of Jon’s desk.

He jumps again, and guilt twinges in Tim’s chest—a twinge which deepens the longer he regards Jon’s complete bewilderment.

“It’s…morning?”

Silence hangs in the air for a moment as they stare at each other. 

_Something’s wrong._

Tim tries to swallow down his concern, remembering that he’s supposed to be angry.

“Look. If I tell you to go home, are you going to listen to me?”

Jon drops his gaze at once, picking at the scars on his hands.

“Right. That’s what I thought.”

Tim shakes his head briefly, looking away for a moment in frustration, when his eyes land on a small, wrapped present set on a shelf—on top of which stands a handmade card. Squinting at it, Tim can just make out the front: “Congratulations” is scrawled across the bottom in forcibly-neatened cursive, above which sits a messy drawing of a Highland cow, shaggy hair hanging down over its eyes.

Tim quirks a smile at this, his anger dissipating immediately.

“That for Martin?” he asks, jerking a thumb toward it.

Jon looks up, eyes bleary.

“What? Oh—yes, yes it is.”

“What is it?”

“Er—just some tea from my family in Jordan. It’s…quite good, actually. I thought he might like it.”

Tim is grinning smugly now, doing his best impression of a Cheshire cat while leaning over Jon’s desk.

“What an interestingly personal gift, Mister Sims. In fact, one might even mistake it for flirting—that is, if you’re capable of such a thing.”

Predictably, Jon’s face flushes beet red at this, and Tim’s entire body tips back in laughter.

“I—you—it’s not _flirting_ , Tim. But I will have you know that I am capable of doing so, _when I wish.”_

Tim laughs again, so utterly pleased with himself at how flustered Jon has become.

“Right. Of course, silly me.”

After a moment’s silence, Jon sighs and rubs a hand into his temple, and Tim knows that the fun is over for now.

“So? Do you want to come grab a coffee with me and Sasha? Might do you good to get out of this place for a moment. Maybe get some caffeine and try to look a little bit less like death warmed over.”

Jon shoots him a sharp glare, which Tim thoroughly enjoys, before turning his eyes to his cane where it rests against the desk. Considering it for a moment, he worries at his bottom lip before reaching out to grab it.

“Fine. If you—”

“If I insist, right. And I do.”

“Alright.”

Jon braces his left hand against his desk, the right gripped tightly around his cane, and lifts himself to half-standing.

Panic laces up every nerve in Tim’s body when he gasps, shifting all his weight to his good leg and swaying alarmingly. He grabs onto him immediately, steadying him by the upper arms with some difficulty.

“ _Woah_ , Jon, woah woah—”

Jon blinks rapidly, face growing ashen.

“Sorry, I…” he trails off at once, eyes closing.

“Sit back down, here—sit down, Jon. God.”

Tim guides him back to his chair as the cane clatters to the floor, forgotten. His eyes remain closed as he sits, prompting Tim to shake him gently by the shoulder.

“Jon? You with me?”

After a few moments, he opens his eyes obediently, moving to nod before thinking better of it.

“Sorry, just—head rush.”

Tim rolls his eyes and stands to his full height, placing his hands on his hips.

“ _Bullshit._ What’s wrong with you?”

Jon holds out his hands, palms facing up.

“ _Nothing!_ Just…change in the weather. Affects my…affects my leg, that’s all.”

As he says this, something that looks suspiciously like a fever chill runs the length of his body. Tim snorts in derision.

“Right. Sure. And there’s nothing at all to the fact that you’re _literally_ shaking right now?”

Jon’s eyebrows furrow in annoyance at this. 

“I’m not—”

He breaks off as he looks down—finding that he is, in fact, shaking.

_Unbelievable._

“Right. I’m going to ask you again, and you’d better not lie to me. What’s wrong with you?”

At this, Jon sighs, looking away with an expression that shows he’s at least considering honesty. 

_Suppose that’s all I can ask for._

His considerations are cut short by coughing, which he muffles quickly with both his elbow and his closed mouth. Tim can’t help but wince at the sound—so dry and wheezing and _painful_ that he can almost feel it in his own throat. As the fit comes to an end, Jon lowers his elbow and heaves out a wet sigh.

“Just…not feeling well, that’s all. It’s nothing.”

Tim is momentarily shocked by the candor of that statement, and feels his chest swell with responsibility.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Though he knows Jon will be distinctly annoyed by it, Tim places a hand on his forehead—quickly realizing what a useless thermometer his hand makes. Jon scowls up at him especially unpleasantly.

“What, it works in the movies!” he says defensively, dropping his hand.

Jon’s scowl only deepens, but he remains silent.

“Fine. I’ll just go get the thermometer, then.”

Tim walks quickly toward the break room to grab the first aid kit, which he knows Martin has recently restocked with just about everything his money could buy. Tim had made fun of him for it at the time—both for the absurd nature of his worry, as well as the extremely limited number of potential office uses for things such as _a satellite phone_ —but now, he felt nothing but gratitude for his foresight.

_Should really listen to Martin more._

_Maybe then I wouldn’t have ended up with worms in my shoulder, and I’d still be able to turn my head properly._

He grabs the thermometer and walks briskly back down the hallway, hearing Jon’s coughing resume—the painfully hollow barking no longer contained by his shirt sleeve.

_Jesus, he sounds awful._

When he arrives back at Jon’s office, he finds him braced over his knees, trying to catch his breath in the wake of his fit. Every inhale is drawn heavily, his lungs seemingly starved for oxygen. 

Tim’s worry grows with every passing second.

“Alright, Jon, put this under your tongue,” he orders, holding the thermometer in front of him. 

He takes it resentfully—but puts it under his tongue nonetheless. They wait for a few moments in silence, Jon struggling to breathe through a blocked nose until the thermometer beeps, and Tim takes it out to read it. 

“38.3. Not too bad, but most definitely there.”

Jon does not reply, instead dropping his head as he resumes pulling in labored breaths in through his mouth.

_Christ._

Tim sighs, replacing his hands on his hips.

“Alright, Jon. What else is there? Besides all of—” he gestures vaguely at him— “ _this_ , and the hacking up a lung?”

It appears that Jon had not heard him, his breaths still coming in heavy and wheezing.

“Hey.”

Tim snaps his fingers in front of Jon’s face and kneels in front of him, trying to draw his gaze.

“Hey—look at me, Jon. What else is there?”

His eyes turn vague and glassy as his breath hitches, catching a few times before he turns, grabbing wildly at the box of tissues set on his desk. He manages to press one against his nose just in time, facing away from Tim as he sneezes thrice—harsh and wet—before it morphs steadily back into awful barking hacks.

_Jesus, Jon._

Tim shifts his weight back to sit cross-legged on the floor, waiting out the fit with his head resting against his fist. Nearly half a minute goes by before Jon turns back to him, still visibly shaking.

“Leg hurts,” he whispers weakly.

Tim lets out a soft laugh.

“That much I gathered. Head too?” he asks as Jon begins to rub at his temple again.

Jon only sniffs and nods in response, closing his eyes.

At this, Tim stands, folding his arms sternly across his chest. 

“You should really go to a clinic, Jon. You look _absolutely_ dreadful.”

“I’b fide, Tib,” Jon mutters, and Tim can’t help but outright laugh.

“Ha! Sure. You’re right, case closed, totally not struggling to breathe or anything.”

Jon glares at him once again before reaching for another tissue, blowing into it with some difficulty and little relief.

Something about his misery pulls at Tim’s chest, and he takes pity.

“Really, boss, that looks like the flu to me. And if you won’t do it for yourself, then take one for the team and go home. You don’t want to get us ill, I can promise you that. Then you’ll find us even more insufferable than usual, me _especially_. And yes, that is a threat.”

The corners of Jon’s mouth quirk up faintly at this, and Tim feels like he’s won the lottery at last.

“Fide. I’ll go.”

“ _Excellent.”_

Tim picks up Jon’s cane from where it’s fallen to the floor, handing it to him and bracing the opposite elbow as he stands.

“Come on, now. There we are. Have to get you out of here before Martin arrives and starts fussing.”

Jon huffs out a laugh, a genuine smile spreading across his face.

“Tim?”

“What?”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing right now?”

Tim sputters in mock indignation, jaw dropping as he turns to face Jon.

“How _dare_ you even suggest that? I’d _never_ do such a thing.”

Jon’s shoulders shake with muffled laughter as they walk, and Tim feels like the luckiest person in the world to be able to witness it.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!! feel free to drop me a line on tumblr @celosiaa <3 have a great day!!


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